THISTLEDOWN
_New and Enlarged Edition, 1913_
_Second Impression, 1914_
_Third Impression, 1919_
_Fourth Impression, 1921_
[Illustration: Scotch folks humour, being the common gift of Nature
to all and sundry in the land, differing only in degree, slips out
most frequently when and where least expected. Famous specimens of
it come down from our lonesome hillsides—from the cottage and farm
ingle-nooks.—_Page 34._
Frontispiece.]
THISTLEDOWN
A BOOK OF SCOTCH HUMOUR
CHARACTER, FOLK-LORE
STORY & ANECDOTE
[Illustration]
BY
ROBERT FORD
EDITOR OF
“BALLADS OF BAIRNHOOD,” “AULD SCOTS BALLANTS”
“VAGABOND SONGS,” ETC.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY JOHN DUNCAN_
PAISLEY: ALEXANDER GARDNER
Publisher by Appointment to the late Queen Victoria
PREFACE
An eminently learned and genial ex-Professor of one of our Universities
not long since pointed out how Scotland was remarkable for three
things—Songs, Sermons, and Shillings. And whilst it may not be disputed
that she has enormous and ever-increasing store of these three good
things—and that, moreover, she loves them all—there is a fourth quality
of her many-sided nature which is more distinctly characteristic of
Auld Caledonia and her people, and that is the general possession of
the faculty of original humour. Not one in ten thousand of the Scottish
people may be able to produce a good song, or a good sermon; not one in
twenty thousand of them may be able to “gather meikle gear and haud it
weel thegither;” but every second Scotsman is a born humourist. Humour
is part and parcel of his very being. He may not live without it—may
not breathe. Consequently, it is found breaking out amongst us in the
most unlikely as well as in the most likely places. It blossoms in the
solemn assemblies of the people; at meetings of Kirk-Sessions; in the
City and Town Council Chambers; in our Presbyteries; our Courts of
Justice; and in the high Parliament of the Kirk itself. Famous specimens
of it come down from the lonesome hillsides; from the cottage, bothy,
and farm ingle-nooks. It issues from the village inn, the smiddy, the
kirkyard; and functions of fasting and sorrow give it birth as well as
occasions of feasting and mirth. It drops from the lips of the learned
and the unlearned in the land; and is not more frequently revealed in
the eloquence of the University _savant_ than in the gibberish of the
hobbling village and city natural.
Humorous Scottish anecdotes have been an abundant crop; and collectors of
them there have been not a few. Dean Ramsay’s garrulous and entertaining
_Reminiscences_, and Dr. Charles Rogers’ _Familiar Illustrations of
Scottish Life_ excepted, however, the published collections of our
floating facetiæ have been “hotch-potch” affairs. Revelations each of
some little industry, no doubt, but few of them affording any proof of
the compiler’s familiarity with the subject. And as none of them have
reached farther back than Dean Ramsay, and all have been content to take
the more familiar of Ramsay’s and Rogers’ illustrations and anecdotes,
and supplement these in hap-hazard fashion with random clippings from
the variety columns of the daily and weekly newspapers, the individual
result has been such as Voltaire’s famous criticism eloquently
describes:—They have contained things both good and new; but what was
good was not new, and what was new was not good.
To the present work the critical aphorism of the “brilliant Frenchman”
may not in fairness be applied. In any attempt to afford an adequate
representation of the humours of the Scottish people, illustrations
must of necessity be drawn from widely different sources, and I have,
consequently, to confess my indebtedness to various earlier gleaners in
the same field, chiefly to Dean Ramsay, Dr. Rogers, and the genial trio,
Carrick, Motherwell, and Henderson. But for representative illustrations
of Scottish life and character I have gone further back and come down to
a later period than any previous writer on the subject. And so, whilst
the reader will discover here much that is old and good, he will find
very much that is new, which, as illustrative of Scottish humour and
character, will compare with the best of the old.
No pointless or dubiously nationalistic anecdote or illustration has been
admitted. The work has been carefully and elaborately classified under
eighteen distinct headings, each class, or section, being introduced by
an exposition of the phase or phases of life and character to which it
applies, and cemented from first to last by reflective and expository
comment.
Essentially a book of humour, it is hoped that the reader will find it to
be something more than a merely funny book. If he does not, the writer
will have failed to realize fully his aim.
ROBERT FORD.
[1891.]
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I., 11
The Scottish Tongue—Its graphic force and powers
of pathos and humour.
CHAPTER II., 32
Characteristics of Scotch Humour.
CHAPTER III., 56
Humour of Old Scotch Divines.
CHAPTER IV., 87
The Pulpit and the Pew.
CHAPTER V., 122
The Old Scottish Beadle—His Character and Humour.
CHAPTER VI., 149
Humour of Scotch Precentors.
CHAPTER VII., 169
Humour of Dram-Drinking in Scotland.
CHAPTER VIII., 195
The Thistle and the Rose.
CHAPTER IX., 222
Screeds o’ Tartan—A Chapter of Highland Humour.
CHAPTER X., 247
Humour of Scottish Poets.
CHAPTER XI., 285
’Tween Bench and Bar—A Chapter of Legal Facetiæ.
CHAPTER XII., 313
Humour of Scottish Rural Life.
CHAPTER XIII., 342
Humours of Scottish Superstition.
CHAPTER XIV., 367
Humour of Scotch Naturals.
CHAPTER XV., 386
Jamie Fleeman, the Laird of Udny’s Fool.
CHAPTER XVI., 401
“Hawkie”—A Glasgow Street Character.
CHAPTER XVII., 429
The Laird o’ Macnab.
CHAPTER XVIII., 440
Kirkyard Humour.
INDEX, 455
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Scotch folks’ humour, _Frontispiece_
“Plenty o’ milk for a’ the parritch,” 35
“Three fauts to his sermon,” 91
“Ye didna seem to ha’e catch’d mony,” 98
“This wee black deev’luck, we ca’ _Wee Macgregor o’ the Tron_!” 106
“Can ye tell me how long Adam continued in a state of innocence?” 120
“I’m geyan weel on mysel’, sir,” 131
“I hae happit mony a faut o’ yours,” 138
“The foxes’ tails,” 168
“They mind their ain business,” 215
“Can ye no show him yer Government papers?” 322
“We do a’ oor ain whistlin’ here,” 325
“My—my faither’s below’t!” 326
“If ye was a sheep, ye wad hae mair sense,” 328
“Jamie Carlyle, sir, feeds the best swine that come into
Dumfries market,” 335
“Hoo the deil do you ken whether this be the road or no?” 383
THISTLEDOWN
CHAPTER I
THE SCOTTISH TONGUE—ITS GRAPHIC FORCE AND POWERS OF PATHOS AND HUMOUR
We are frequently told—and now and again receive unwelcome scraps
of evidence in confirmation of the scandal—that our dear old mother
tongue is falling into desuetude in our native land. Already, it must
be confessed, it has been abrogated from the drawing-rooms of the
ultra-refined upper circles of Scottish society. The snobbish element
amongst the great middle-class, ever prone to imitate their “betters,”
affect not to understand it, and blush (the sillier of them) when, in an
unguarded moment, a manifest Scotticism slips into their conversation.
There is a portion of the semi-educated working population, again, who,
imitating the snobbish element of the middle grade, speak Scotch freely
only in their working clothes. On Sundays, and extra occasions, when
dressed in their very best, there is just about as much Scotch in their
talk as will show one how poorly they can speak English, and just about
enough English to render their Scotch ridiculous. Observing all this,
and taking it in conjunction with the other denationalising tendencies
of the age, there are those who predict that the time is not far distant
when Burns’s poems, Scott’s novels, and Hogg’s tales will be sealed books
to the partially educated Scotsman. That there is a growing tendency
in the direction indicated is quite true, but the disease, I believe,
is only skin deep as yet, and the bone and sinew of the country remain
quite unaffected. That there will be a sudden reaction in the patient
must be the sincere desire of every patriotic Scot. If the prediction of
obsoletism is ever to be realized, then, “the mair’s the pity.” Scotland
will not stand where she did. For very much—oh, so much—of what has made
her glorious among the nations of the world will have passed away, taking
the sheen of her glory with it. What Scotsmen, as Scotsmen, should ever
prize most is bound up inseparably with the native language. Ours is a
matured country, and the stirring scenes of her history on which the
mind of the individual delights to dwell, are so frequently enshrined in
spirited ballad and song, couched in the pithy Scottish vernacular, that,
to suppose these latter dead—they are not translatable into English—is to
suppose the best part of Scottish history dead and buried beyond the hope
of resurrection. For its own sake alone the Scottish tongue is eminently
deserving of regard—of cultivation and preservation. Scotsmen should
be—and so all well-conditioned Scotsmen surely are—as proud of their
native tongue as they are of their far-famed native bens and glens. For
why, the rugged grandeur of the physical features of our country are not
more worthy of admiration than the language in which their glories have
been most fittingly extolled. They have characteristics in common; for
rugged grandeur is as truly a feature of the Scottish language as it is
the dominant feature of Scottish scenery. True, its various dialects are
somewhat tantalising. The Forfar man is vividly identified by his “foo’s”
and his “fa’s,” and his “fat’s” and his “fans”; and the Renfrewshire man
by his “weans,” his “wee weans,” and his “yin pound yin and yinpence,”
etc. Taking a simple phrase as an example—(_Anglice_):—“The spoon is
on the loom.” The Aberdonian will tell you that “The speen’s on the
leem.” The Perthshire man will say “That spun’s on the luim”; and the
Glasgow citizen will inform you that “The spin’s on the lim.” In a fuller
example, a Renfrewshire person will vouchsafe the information that he
“Saw a seybo synd’t doon the syvor till it sank in the stank.” A native
of Perthshire will only about half understand what the speaker has said,
and may threaten to “rax a rung frae the boggars o’ the hoose and reeshil
his rumple wi’t,” without sending terror to the soul of his West country
confederate. Latterly, an Aberdonian may come on the scene and ask, “Fa’
fuppit the loonie?” and neither of the forenamed parties will at once
perceive the drift of his inquiry. To illustrate how difficult it may
be for the East and the West to understand each other, I will tell a
little story. An Aberdonian not long ago got work in Glasgow where they
used a quantity of tar, and was rather annoyed to see his fellow-workmen
wash the tar off their hands while he washed and rubbed at his in vain.
His patience could stand it no longer, and going up to the foreman, and,
stretching out his hands, he asked:—“Fat’ll tak’ it aff?” “Yes,” replied
the foreman, “fat’ll tak’ it aff.” “Fat’ll tak’ it aff?” “Yes, I said fat
would tak’ it aff.” “But _fat’ll_ tak’ it aff?” persisted the Aberdonian.
The foreman pointed to a tub, and roared: “Grease, you stupid eediot!”
“Weel than,” retorted the Aberdonian, “an’ fat for did you no say that at
first?”
There are, however, dialects and provincialisms in the language of every
country and people under the sun, and the Scottish vernacular is not
worse—not nearly so bad as many are. Our dialects are mainly the results
of a narrowing and broadening of the vowel sounds, as exemplified in the
instance of the words “spoon” and “loom.” I have spoken of the rugged
grandeur of the Scottish Doric, and its claims to preservation. There
are single words in Scotch which cannot be adequately expressed in a
whole sentence in English. Think of “fushionless,” “eerie,” “wersh,”
“gloamin’,” “scunner,” “glower,” “cosie,” “bonnie,” “thoweless,”
“splairge,” and “plowter,” etc., and try to find their equivalents in
the language of the school. Try and find a sentence that will fairly
express some of the words. “A gowpen o’ glaur” is but weakly expressed
in “a handful of mud”; “stoure” is not adequately defined by calling it
“dust in motion”; “flype yer stockin’, lassie,” is easier said than “turn
your stocking inside out, girl.” “Auld lang syne” is not expressible in
English. “A bonnie wee lassie” is more euphonious and expressive by a
long way than “a pretty little girl.” “Hirsle yont,” “my cuit’s yeukie,”
“e’enin’s orts mak’ gude mornin’ fodder,” “spak’ o’ lowpin’ ower a
linn,” and “pree my mou’,” are also good examples of expressive Scotch.
Nowhere, perhaps, is the singular beauty and rare expressiveness of the
Scottish national tongue seen to better advantage than in the proverbial
sayings—those short, sharp, and shiny shafts of speech, aptly defined
as “the wit of one and the wisdom of many,”—and of which the Scottish
language has been so prolific. “The genius, wit, and wisdom of a nation
are discovered by their proverbs,” says Bacon; and, verily, while the
proverbs of Scotland are singularly expressive of the pith and beauty
of the vernacular in which they are couched, they also reveal in very
great measure the mental and social characteristics of the people who
have perpetuated them. “A gangin’ fit’s aye gettin’, were’t but a thorn;”
“Burnt bairns dread the fire;” “A’e bird in the hand’s worth twa in the
bush;” “A fool an’ his siller’s sune parted;” “Hang a thief when he’s
young an’ he’ll no steal when he’s auld;” “There’s aye some water whaur
the stirkie droons;” “Moudiwarts feedna on midges;” “When gossipin’
wives meet, the deil gangs to his dinner;” “Hungry dogs are blythe o’
bursten puddin’s;” “He needs a lang-shankit spune that wad sup wi’ the
deil;” “A blate cat maks a prood mouse;” “Better a toom house than an
ill tenant;” “Lippen to me, but look to yoursel’;” “Jouk an’ lat the
jaw gang by;” “Better sma’ fish than nane;” “The tulziesome tyke comes
hirplin’ hame;” “Ha’ binks are sliddery;” “Ilka cock craws best on his
ain middenhead;” “Lazy youth mak’s lowsy age;” “Next to nae wife, a guid
wife’s best;” “Lay your wame to your winnin’;” “It’s nae lauchin’ to girn
in a widdy;” “The wife’s a’e dochter an’ the man’s a’e coo, the tane’s
ne’er weel, an’ the tither’s ne’er fu’.” These give the evidence.
Ours is a language peculiarly powerful in its use of vowels, and the
following dialogue between a shopman and a customer is a convincing
example. The conversation relates to a plaid hanging at a shop door:—
Customer (inquiring the material)—“Oo?” (wool?).
Shopman—“Aye, oo.” (yes, wool).
Customer—“A’ oo?” (all wool?).
Shopman—“Ay, a’ oo” (yes, all wool).
Customer—“A’ a’e oo?” (all one wool?).
Shopman—“Ou, ay, a’ a’e oo” (oh, yes, all one wool).
A dialogue in vowel sounds—surely a thing unique in literature!
In his Scotch version of the Psalms—“frae Hebrew intil Scottis”—the late
Rev. Dr. Hately Waddell, of Glasgow, gives many striking illustrations
of the force and beauty of idiomatic Scotch. His language partakes
rather much of the antique form to be readily perceptible to the present
generation, but its purity is unquestionable, and its beauty and power
inexpressible in other words than his own. Let us quote the familiar 23rd
Psalm.
“The Lord is my herd; na want sal fa’ me.
“He louts me till lie amang green howes; He airts me atowre by the lown
waters.
“He waukens my wa’gaen saul; He weises me roun for His ain name’s sake,
intil richt roddins.
“Na! tho’ I gang thro’ the dead-mirk dail; _e’en thar_ sal I dread nae
skaithin; for Yersel’ are nar-by me; Yer stok an’ Yer stay haud me baith
fu’ cheerie.
“My buird Ye ha’e hansell’d in face o’ my faes; Ye ha’e drookit my head
wi’ oyle; my bicker is _fu’_ an’ _skailin’_.
“E’en sae sal gude guidin’ an’ gude gree gang wi’ me ilk day o’ my
livin’; an’ ever mair syne i’ the Lord’s ain howff, _at lang last_, sal I
mak bydan.”
Hear also Dr. Waddell’s translation of the last four verses of the 52nd
chapter of Isaiah, they are inexpressibly beautiful:—
“Blythe and brak-out, lilt a’ like ane, ye bourocks sae swak o’
Jerusalem; for the Lord He has hearten’d His folk fu’ kin’; He has e’en
boucht back Jerusalem.
“The Lord He rax’d yont His hailie arm, in sight o’ the nations mony, O;
an’ ilk neuk o’ the yirth sal tak tent an’ learn the health o’ our God
sae bonie, O!
“Awa, awa, clean but frae the toun: mak nor meddle wi’ nought that’s
roun’; awa frae her bosom; haud ye soun’, wi’ the gear o’ the Lord
forenent ye!
“For it’s no wi’ sic pingle ye’se gang the gate; nor it’s no wi’ sic
speed ye maun spang the spate; for the Lord, He’s afore ye, _ear’ an’
late_; an’ Israel’s God, He’s ahint ye!”
These suggest “The Lord’s Prayer intill Auld Scottis,” as printed by
Pinkerton, and which is cast in more antique form still:—“Uor fader
quhilk beest i’ Hevin, Hallowit weird thyne nam. Cum thyne kinrik. Be
dune thyne wull as is i’ Hevin, sva po yerd. Uor dailie breid gif us
thilk day. And forleit us our skaths, as we forfeit tham quha skath us.
And leed us na intill temtation. Butan fre us fra evil. Amen.”
No writer of any time—Burns alone excepted—has handled the native tongue
to better purpose for the expression of every feeling of the human heart
than has Sir Walter Scott; and in Jeanie Deans’ plea to the Queen for
her sister’s life there is the finest example of simple pathos, dashed
with the passion of hope struggling with despair, that is to be met with
anywhere in literature. It shows the extent in this way of which the
native speech is capable.
“My sister—my puir sister Effie, still lives, though her days and hours
are numbered! She still lives, and a word o’ the King’s mouth might
restore her to a heart-broken auld man, that never, in his daily and
nightly exercise, forgot to pray that His Majesty might be blessed with
a lang an’ a prosperous reign, and that his throne, and the throne o’
his posterity, might be established in righteousness. O, madam, if ever
ye kend what it was to sorrow for and with a sinning and a suffering
creature, whase mind is sae tossed that she can be neither ca’d fit to
live or dee, hae some compassion on our misery! Save an honest house from
dishonour, and an unhappy girl, not eighteen years of age, from an early
and dreadful death! Alas! it is not when we sleep saft and wake merrily
oursel’s that we think on other people’s sufferings. Our hearts are waxed
light within us then, and we are for righting our ain wrangs and fighting
our ain battles. But when the hour of trouble comes to the mind or to the
body—and seldom may it visit your leddyship—and when the hour of death
comes, that comes to high and low—lang and late may it be yours!—oh, my
leddy, then it isna what we hae dune for oursel’s, but what we hae done
for others, that we think on maist pleasantly. And the thought that ye
hae intervened to spare the puir thing’s life will be sweeter in that
hour, come when it may, than if a word o’ your mouth could hang the haill
Porteous mob at the tail o’ a’e tow.”
Then the vigour and variety of the Scottish idiom as a vehicle of
description has perhaps never received better illustration than in Andrew
Fairservice’s account of Glasgow Cathedral:—“Ay! it’s a brave Kirk,”
said Andrew. “Nane o’ yere whigmaleeries and curliwurlies and open
steek hems aboot it—a’ solid, weel-jointed mason wark, that will stand
as lang as the warld, keep hands and gunpowther aff it. It had amaist
a douncome lang syne at the Reformation, when they pu’d doon the Kirks
of St. Andrews and Perth, and thereawa’, to cleanse them o’ Papery,
and idolatry, and image-worship, and surplices, and sic like rags o’
the muckle hure that sitteth on the seven hills, as if ane wasna braid
enough for her auld hinder end. Sae the commons o’ Renfrew, and o’ the
Barony, and the Gorbals, and a’ aboot, they behoved to come into Glasgow
a’e fair morning, to try their hand on purging the High Kirk o’ Popish
nick-nackets. But the townsmen o’ Glasgow, they were feared their auld
edifice might slip the girths in gaun through siccan rough physic, sae
they rang the common bell, and assembled the train-bands wi’ took o’
drum. By gude luck, the worthy James Rabat was Dean o’ Guild that year
(and a gude mason he was himsell, made him keener to keep up the auld
bigging). And the trades assembled, and offered downright battle to the
commons, rather than their Kirk should coup the crans, as others had
done elsewhere. It wasna for love o’ Papery—na, na!—nane could ever say
that o’ the trades o’ Glasgow. Sae they sune came to an agreement to
tak a’ the idolatrous statues o’ sants (sorrow be on them) out o’ their
neuks—and sae the bits o’ stone idols were broken in pieces by Scripture
warrant, and flung into the Molendiner burn, and the Auld Kirk stood as
crouse as a cat when the flaes are kaimed aff her, and a’ body was alike
pleased. And I hae heard wise folk say that if the same had been dune in
ilka Kirk in Scotland, the Reform wad just hae been as pure as it is e’en
now, and we wad hae mair Christianlike Kirks; for I hae been sae lang in
England, that naething will drive out o’ my head, that the dog-kennel at
Osbaldistone-Hall is better than mony a house o’ God in Scotland.”
No man, it is well known, had ever more command of the native vernacular
than Robert Burns. In a letter written at Carlisle, in June 1787, to
his friend William Nicol, Master of the High School, Edinburgh, he has
left a curious testimony at once to the capabilities of the language
and his own skill in it. “Kind, honest-hearted Willie,” he writes, “I’m
sitten doon here, after seven-and-forty miles’ ridin’, e’en as forjeskit
and forniaw’d as a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o’ my
land-lowper-like stravaigin’ sin’ the sorrowfu’ hour that I sheuk hands
and parted wi’ Auld Reekie.
“My auld ga’d gleyde o’ a meere has huchyall’d up hill and doun brae in
Scotland and England, as teuch and birnie as a vera deevil wi’ me. It’s
true, she’s as puir’s a sang-maker, an’ as hard’s a kirk, and tipper
taipers when she tak’s the gate, jist like a lady’s gentlewoman in a
minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle; but she’s a yauld, poutherie girran
for a’ that, and has a stamach like Willie Stalker’s meere, that wad hae
digeested tumbler-wheels, for she’ll whip me aff her five stimparts o’
the best aits at a down-sitten’, and ne’er fash her thoom. Whan ance her
ring-banes and spavies, her crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl’d, she
beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour the tightest. I could wager
her price to a thretty pennies, that for twa or three wooks, ridin’ at
fifty miles a day, the deil-stickit a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde and
Whithorn could cast saut on her tail.
“I hae dander’d owre a’ the country frae Dunbar to Selcraig, and ha’e
forgather’d wi’ mony a gude fallow, and mony a weel-faur’d hizzie. I met
wi’ twa dink queynes in particular. Ane o’ them a sonsie, fine, fodgel
lass, baith braw and bonnie; the ither was a clean-shankit, straught,
tight, weel-faur’d wench, as blythe’s a lintwhite on a flowerie thorn,
and as sweet and modest’s a new blawn plum-rose in a hazel shaw. They
were baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and ony ane o’ them had as muckle
smeddum and rumblegumption as the half o’ some Presbytries that you and I
baith ken. They played me sic a deil o’ a shavie, that I daur say if my
harigals were turn’d out ye wad see twa nicks i’ the heart o’ me like the
mark o’ a kail-whittle in a castock.
“I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, Gude forgi’e me, I gat
mysel’ sae noutourously bitchify’d the day, after kail-time, than I can
hardly stoiter but and ben.
“My best respecks to the guidwife and a’ our common friens, especiall Mr.
and Mrs. Cruikshank, and the honest guidman o’ Jock’s Lodge.
“I’ll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, and the
branks bide hale.
“Gude be wi’ you, Willie! Amen!”
That letter might fairly be made the “Shibboleth” in any case of doubt
regarding one’s ability to read Scotch. It would shiver the front teeth
of some of your counterlouper gentry. Yet it is not an overdone example
of the Scotch Doric as it was spoken in Edinburgh drawing-rooms a hundred
years ago—_vide_, Henry Cockburn’s _Memorials_. Between it and the “braid
Scotch” of half a century earlier there is a marked difference.
In the _Scots Magazine_ for November, 1743, the following proclamation is
printed:—
“All brethren and sisters, I let you to witt that there is a
twa-year-auld lad littleane tint, that ist’ ere’en.
“It’s a’ scabbit i’ the how hole o’ the neck o’d, and a cauler kail-blade
and brunt butter at it, that ist’er. It has a muckle maun blue pooch
hingin’ at the carr side o’d, fou o’ mullers and chucky-stanes, and a
spindle and a whorle, and it’s daddy’s ain jockteleg in’t. It’s a’ black
aneath the nails wi’ howkin’ o’ yird, that is’t. It has its daddy’s
gravat tied about the craig o’d, and hingin’ down the back o’d. The back
o’ the hand o’d’s a’ brunt; it got it i’ the smiddy ae day.
“Whae’er can find this said twa-year-auld lad littleane may repair to M⸺o
J⸺n’s, town-smith in C⸺n, and he sall hae for reward twall bear scones,
and a ride o’ our ain auld beast to bear him hame, and nae mair words
about it, that wilt’r no.”
Hogg, in his “Shepherd’s Calendar,” referring to the religious character
of the shepherds of Scotland in his day, tells that “the antiquated
but delightful exercise of family worship was never neglected,” and,
“formality being a thing despised, there are no compositions I ever
heard,” he continues, “so truly original as those prayers occasionally
were; sometimes for rude eloquence and pathos, at other times for an
indescribable sort of pomp, and, not infrequently, for a plain and
somewhat unbecoming familiarity.” He gives several illustrations,
quite justifying this description, from some with whom he had himself
served and herded. One of the most notable men for this sort of family
eloquence, he thought, was a certain Adam Scott, in Upper Dalgleish. Thus
Scott prayed for a son who seemed thoughtless—
“For Thy mercy’s sake—for the sake o’ Thy puir, sinfu’ servants that are
now addressing Thee in their ain shilly-shally way, and for the sake o’
mair than we daur weel name to Thee, hae mercy on Rab. Ye ken fu’ weel
he’s a wild, mischievous callant, and thinks nae mair o’ committin’ sin
than a dog does o’ lickin’ a dish; but put Thy hook in his nose, and
Thy bridle in his gab, and gar him come back to Thee wi’ a jerk that
he’ll no forget the langest day that he has to live.” For another son he
prayed:—“Dinna forget puir Jamie, wha’s far awa’ frae us this nicht. Keep
Thy arm o’ power about him; and, oh, I wish Ye wad endow him wi’ a little
spunk and smeddum to act for himsel’; for, if Ye dinna, he’ll be but a
bauchle i’ this warld, and a back-sitter i’ the neist.” Again:—“We’re
a’ like hawks, we’re a’ like snails, we’re a’ like slogie riddles; like
hawks to do evil, like snails to do good, and like slogie riddles to let
through a’ the gude and keep a’ the bad.” When Napoleon I. was filling
Europe with alarm, he prayed—“Bring doon the tyrant and his lang neb, for
he has done muckle ill this year, and gie him a cup o’ Thy wrath, and gin
he winna tak’ that, gie him kelty” [_i.e._, double, or two cups].
Very graphic, is it not! It reminds us of the prayer of one Jamie
Hamilton, a celebrated poacher in the West country. As Jamie was
reconnoitring a lonely situation one morning, his mind more set on hares
than on prayers, a woman approached him from the only house in the
immediate district and requested that he should “come owre and pray for
auld Eppie, for she’s just deein’.”
“Ye ken weel enough that I can pray nane,” replied Jamie.
“But we haena time to rin for ony ither Jamie,” urged the woman,
“Eppie’s just slippin’ awa’; and oh! it wad be an awfu’ like thing to lat
the puir bodie dee without bein’ prayed for.”
“Weel, then,” said Jamie, “an I maun come, I maun come; but I’m sure I
kenna right what to say.”
The occasion has ever so much to do with the making of the man.
Approaching the bed, Jamie doffed his cap and proceeded:—“O Lord, Thou
kens best Thy nainsel’ how the case stands atween Thee and auld Eppie;
and sin’ Ye hae baith the heft and the blade in Yer nain hand, just guide
the gully as best suits her guid and Yer nain glory. Amen.”
It was a poacher’s prayer in very truth, but a bishop could not have said
more in as few words.
But it is easy to be expressive in Scotch, for it is peculiar to the
native idiom that the simpler the language employed the effect is the
greater. Think how this is manifested in the song and ballad literature
of the country. In popular ballads like “Gil Morrice,” “Sir James the
Rose,” “Barbara Allan,” and “The Dowie Dens o’ Yarrow”; in Jane Elliot’s
song of “The Flowers of the Forest”; in Grizzel Baillie’s “Werena my
heart licht I wad dee”; in Lady Lindsay’s “Auld Robin Gray”; in Lady
Nairne’s “Land o’ the Leal”; in Burns’s “Auld Lang Syne”; in Tannahill’s
“Gloomy Winter”; in Thom’s “Mitherless Bairn”; and in Smibert’s “Widow’s
Lament.” I do not mean to say that the making of these songs and ballads
was a simple matter; but the verbal material is in each case of the
simplest character, and the effect such that the pieces are established
in the common heart of Scotland. Burns did not go out of his way for
either language or figures of speech to describe Willie Wastle’s wife,
yet see the graphic picture we have presented to us by a few strokes of
the pen:—
“She has an e’e—she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
A clapper-tongue wad deave a miller;
A whiskin’ beard about her mou’,
Her nose and chin they threaten ither—
Sic a wife as Willie has,
I wadna gie a button for her.
“She’s bow-houghed, she’s hein-shinn’d,
Ae limpin’ leg, a hand-breed shorter;
She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left
To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a hump upon her breast
The twin o’ that upon her shouther—
Sic a wife as Willie has,
I wadna gie a button for her.”
No idea there is strained. Every word is common. The same may be said
of Hew Ainshe’s lyric poem in a different vein, “Dowie in the hint o’
Hairst,” which I make no apology for quoting in full:—
“It’s dowie in the hint o’ hairst.
At the wa’-gang o’ the swallow,
When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld,
An’ the wuds are hingin’ yellow;
But oh, it’s dowier far to see
The wa’-gang o’ her the heart gangs wi’,
The dead-set o’ a shinin’ e’e.
That darkens the weary warld on thee.
“There was meikle love atween us twa—
Oh, twa could ne’er be fonder;
And the thing on yird was never made,
That could ha’e gart us sunder.
But the way o’ Heaven’s aboon a’ ken,
And we maun bear what it likes to sen’—
It’s comfort, though, to weary men,
That the warst o’ this warld’s waes maun en’.
“There’s mony things that come and gae,
Just kent, and just forgotten;
And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae,
Gin anither year lie rotten,
But the last look o’ yon lovely e’e,
And the deein’ grip she ga’e to me,
They’re settled like eternitie—
Oh, Mary; gin I were wi’ thee.”
By these illustrations I have endeavoured to shew forth, to all whom it
may concern, the verbal beauty, the graphic force, and the powers for
the expression of pathos and humour there is in the vernacular speech
of Scotland. Like our national emblem—the thistle—it is, of course,
nothing in the mouth of an ass. But well spoken, it is charming alike to
the ear and the intellect; and, for the reasons already urged in this
paper, is worthy of more general esteem and more general cultivation
than the current generation of Scotch folk seem disposed to award it.
Lord Cockburn pronounced it “the sweetest and most expressive of living
languages;” and no unprejudiced reader of his _Memorials_ will dispute
the value of his opinion on the subject. He wrote excellent Doric
himself, and made it the vehicle of his conversation in his family, and
casually throughout the day, as long as he lived. Ho! for more such
good old Scottish gentlemen! Ho! for another Jean, Duchess of Gordon,
to teach our Scottish gentry how to speak naturally! That we had more
men in our midst, with equal influence and education, and charged with
the fine spirit of patriotism which animates Scotland’s ain “grand auld
man”—Professor Blackie! It has been the fashion for English journalists
with pretensions to wit, to animadvert by pen and pencil on what they
regard as the idiosyncracies of Scottish speech and behaviour. _Punch_
is a frequent offender in this way. I say _offender_ advisedly, for no
_Punch_ artist, so far as I have seen—and I have scanned that journal
from the first number to the last—ever drew a Scotsman in “his manner
as he lived.” The originals of the pictures may have appeared in London
Christmas pantomimes, but certainly nowhere else. Then the language which
in their guileless innocence they expect will pass muster as Scotch, is a
hash-up alike revolting to the ears of gods and men. We don’t expect very
much from some folks, but surely even a London journalist should know
that a Scotsman does not say “mon” when he means to say “man.” Charles
Macklin put it that way, and the London journalist apparently can never
get beyond Macklin. Don’t go to London for your Scotch, my reader!
Listen to it as it may still be spoken at your granny’s ingleside.
Familiarise yourself with it as it is to be found in its full vigour and
purity in the Waverley Novels; in Burns’s Poems and Songs; in the “Noctes
Ambrosianæ” of Professor Wilson; in Galt’s Tales; in the writings of the
Ettrick Shepherd; in the stories of George MacDonald, J. M. Barrie, and
S. R. Crockett; in the pages of “Mansie Wauch,” “Tammas Bodkin,” and
“Johnny Gibb.” Don’t learn English less; but again, I say, read, write,
and speak Scotch more frequently. And, when doing so, remember you are
not indulging in a mere vulgar corruption of good English, comparable
with the barbarous dialects of Yorkshire and Devon, but in a true and
distinct, a powerful and beautiful language of your own, “differing not
merely from modern English in pronunciation, but in the possession of
many beautiful words, which have ceased to be English, and in the use of
inflexions unknown to literary and spoken English since the days of Piers
Ploughman and Chaucer.” “The Scotch,” as the late Lord Jeffrey said, “is
not to be considered as a provincial dialect—the vehicle only of rustic
vulgarity and rude local humour. It is the language of a whole country,
long an independent kingdom, and still separate in laws, character, and
manners. It is by no means peculiar to the vulgar, but is the common
speech of the whole nation in early life, and with many of its most
exalted and accomplished individuals throughout their whole existence;
and though it be true that, in later times, it has been in some measure
laid aside by the more ambitious and aspiring of the present generation,
it is still recollected even by them as the familiar language of their
childhood, and of those who were the earliest objects of their love and
veneration. It is connected in their imagination not only with that olden
time which is uniformly conceived as more pure, lofty, and simple than
the present, but also with all the soft and bright colours of remembered
childhood and domestic affection. All its phrases conjure up images of
school-day innocence and sports, and friendships which have no pattern in
succeeding years.”